WE ARE LARGE, WE CONTAIN MULTITUDES

*This essay was written on November 19, 2024. While the political landscape may have evolved, the ideas and reflections remain relevant to understanding broader issues

"Why do you Westerners always care so much about freedom?!” Jim barked, slamming his hand forcefully on the table. His usually cheerful face darkened, his expression suddenly unrecognizable. I sat there stunned in the drawn-out silence that followed, the bang of his hand on the table ringing in my ears. For a moment, I felt my palm tingle, as if I had been the one to strike the table. My mouth went dry. This wasn’t the Jim I knew – jovial, easy-going Jim had vanished. I had pushed too far and had struck a nerve. 

I stopped my counterargument before it could escape my lips. I knew that this wasn’t a time to argue - I was still very much in the process of developing the cultural and historical understanding necessary to push any further. I had also been taken entirely off guard by his heightened emotion. Besides, I knew that trying to change his mind was futile. We had circled this topic for months, always landing in the same place. I chose not to approach the situation as a zero-sum game but to make room for his perspective, however alarming I may have found it. While in that particular moment, words might have failed me, the experience has stayed with me, waiting for me to be ready to look deeper in a way that transcended simple binaries like right or wrong, guilty or innocent. As Hannah Arendt would suggest, this was my invitation to ‘go traveling’ into another’s world and think from a place outside of myself.

Jim and the Weight of Security

Every week, I looked forward to my Wednesday morning class with Jim, the general manager of a mid-sized semiconductor company in Kaohsiung, Taiwan. Our conversations flowed like friends who had known each other for years rather than the more formal teacher/student exchange. That is with one exception: the spectre of Taiwan’s takeover by the People’s Republic of China. 

At this point, conversation would always grind to an uncomfortable halt as Jim declared he was willing to acquiesce to China if it meant material security for himself and his daughters. It left me fumbling to find a response, mindful of remaining respectful, acutely aware of the Taiwanese aversion to conflict. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little perplexed about this willing trade-off. The concept of people prioritizing economic well-being over abstract ideals such as freedom and justice was hardly a new one. However, this case was not just a question of surrendering one’s freedom but surrendering one’s country as well. I’m not much of a flag-waver or a fighter, but I would do everything in my power to defend my country from a similar threat.

A Shared Love of Learning, a Divided Perspective

What was so jarring about this clash of opinions was how deeply it contrasted with our connection on a philosophical and human level. I had constructed a traditional curriculum for the class as a formality, but Jim wanted to ask big questions and dig deeply into existential concerns. I cannot overstate how unusual this was. Having completed an MBA in Taiwan, I had ample opportunity to explore leadership and management practices in the country. Jim was an anomaly, standing in stark contrast to what my classmates and I referred to as “laoban culture”. 

In Mandarin, laoban on the surface means “boss” or owner of a business. In reality, it is a complex, multi-layered word with some connotations more favorable than others. Within the context of my MBA program, “laoban culture” reflected a management approach that was more interested in exercising power and dominating subordinates than reflecting on how to be an inspiring and respectful leader.

Jim, on the other hand, dove into TED Talks, sending me the ones that compelled him. We explored Ken Robinson’s Principles of Creative Leadership, which emphasized leadership from the middle, and Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi’s idea of “flow.” Jim was inspired by his idea of the connection between success and ethics, and about creating a workplace where people can both feel joy and “be aware of their mission to society.” 

In Drew Dudley’s TEDx talk about everyday leadership, Jim seized onto the idea of “the importance of letting those people who have made our lives better know the impact they have made.” When I asked him to write a short piece on someone who inspired him, he wrote about Nelson Mandela, saying, “I think he is a gift that God gave the people who had suffered all the pain in that country.” Jim was passionate about stories that explored how to live our best life and be the best person we can be. He valued the ideas of caring about others and persevering through adversity.

Through our conversations, I came to see him as a person with an immense heart, eager curiosity, and an intrinsic respect for the people around him, regardless of status. He didn't feel like a student; he felt like a kindred spirit. I guess sometimes when you agree so wholeheartedly with someone on so many things, it can be easy to lose sight of the fact that, if we are acting from a place of authenticity, we’re inevitably going to run into differing perspectives on something. I just couldn’t wrap my head around how someone who held such deep respect for people’s need for self-actualization and who frequently expressed the desire to create the conditions for individuals to flourish could be so prepared to surrender to authoritarian control. 

The Historical Context of Fear

Jim and I were about the same age and had quickly formed a comfortable friendship. However, we did, after all, come from radically different cultural backgrounds and histories. Coming from a Western culture centred on the individual, I was raised according to a narrative that cherishes personal freedom. The traditional structure and support of the clan had been supplanted to a great extent by the state, upheld by a belief in, and allegiance to, democratic ideals, where free individuals act to create a shared public realm. Hand in hand with democracy comes a concern with equality and human rights, and the freedom for people to define their own lives. As I tried to reconcile Jim’s views with his character, I began to wonder: How much of his perspective was shaped by Taiwan's tumultuous history and ambiguous status as a nation?

These were my early days in Taiwan, and at that point, I wasn’t well-versed in the dark legacy of Chiang Kai-Shek’s governance, but upon learning this history, my confusion deepened. Taiwan had endured the longest period of martial law in modern history, known as the White Terror. Established to suppress potential communist infiltration and consolidate power under the Kuomintang’s rule, civil liberties such as freedom of speech, assembly, and the press were severely restricted. Tens of thousands of people were imprisoned, tortured, and executed. And while nearly forty years have elapsed since its end, Taiwanese friends my age still talk about its lingering effect, the hesitation at times to speak out politically, the impulse to keep a low profile and not be noticed. The threat from without – China – had always been there, but for nearly four decades, the greatest threat had come from within.

I, on the other hand, was raised steeped in democratic ideals. This was due in large part to my close relationship with my maternal grandmother, a passionate patriot and a believer in a world order based on justice and human rights. In our time together, she imparted many stories that were underpinned by these values. Her final years of high school were devoid of the boys who had lied about their age and joined their fathers as they marched from the farm to the front, prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice in the name of the greater good. 

The West learned the hard way through this period of history how freedom can be stolen and the idea of justice desecrated, but it became a rallying cry as nations came together to fight a common foe. Through all of this, we knew who we were, proud Canadians, and we were known as such. Never was it said to us, You are not you, you are something else. This recognition gave us a secure place in the world from which to fight. 

After the war, my grandfather would work for both the Canadian government and the United Nations, an organization that future Canadian Prime Minister Lester Pearson was instrumental in shaping both the structure and principles of. For my grandmother, this involvement was a reflection of Canadian values and Canada’s role in the world. Canada, she would say, was a strong voice for peace, democratic ideals, and freedom. A major turning point in our history was the introduction of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, which became a global model for modern constitutional democracies. The principle of freedom runs in our blood and is baked into our bones.

While Western cultures tend to value personal freedom, democracy, and human rights, Eastern cultures emphasize social harmony, filial piety, and respect for society. On the surface of things, this could provide an adequate explanation of our differences in viewpoint. However, Taiwan has enthusiastically embraced democracy since its first election in 1996, with recent presidential elections seeing voter turnouts of 71-75%. Demonstrating their passion even more, the Taiwanese people have also shown they can get behind a good protest (see The Sunflower Movement, The Wild Strawberries Movement). In my time here, I’ve come to see the Taiwanese as people who value having a political voice.

Jim happens to be older than both freedom and democratic participation in his country, as he was already in his late teens when Taiwan leaped from dictatorship to democracy. This came about in large part due to the initiatives of Chiang Ching-Kuo, Chiang Kai-Shek's son and Taiwan’s then-president, as a strategic move to garner legitimacy in the eyes of the West. The hope was to tip the scales in favour of the ROC over the PRC, a move that never quite achieved its realization. 

As the young democracy thrived, the threat of obliteration loomed large, its erasure symbolized in 1971 with the recognition of the “One China” policy. Taiwan was unceremoniously stripped of its nation status, removed from the UN and other world governance organizations, and relegated to a no man’s land of 'self-ruled island.' In international sporting arenas, athletes’ uniforms bear the name Chinese Taipei, a place that does not even exist. But those are the rules of the game, and if Taiwan wants to play, it must pay with its name. All this has resulted in a tenuous existence, leaving those who identify first and foremost as Taiwanese (61.7% as of June 2024 compared to 17.1% in 1992, according to National Chengchi University) looking for a place in the world, while the powers that be dance around the issue and parse words. 

China is coming. The elephant in the room. The common response is that China has been saying that for decades, which is true, but it is cold comfort when the future is so painfully uncertain. When I talk to people back home in Canada, receiving their news via the lens of Western media, I get the feeling that they expect us to be in a state of panic. But people here live their lives behind a veneer of complacency, even as quiet anxiety churns, while the ‘dear leader’ across the water steadily ramps up the rhetoric. And in the back of people’s minds, the lingering question: What if this time he means it?

2024 saw multiple large-scale military exercises involving simulated attacks and an escalation in the frequency of its military aircraft entering Taiwanese airspace. On a more cynical note, there was the October release of a satellite image of a heart-shaped patrol route encircling Taiwan, accompanied by messages like “The patrol is in the shape of loving you.” Needless to say, the feeling isn’t mutual. And military aggression is not known for its loving touch. 

Even as a foreigner here at times, this threat can feel huge, scary, and impossible to defeat. Anytime the F-16s roar across the sky, I tell myself, “It's probably just a drill,” knowing there is a very good chance that it isn’t. In light of this reality, it feels like Taiwan’s freedom is on shaky ground, begging the question: What is the risk of loving something you could very well lose? Is it perhaps better to never feel that love in the first place?

As a European Canadian, I had one of the most politically stable and secure upbringings in the world. I never had to experience racism or overt discrimination. My country is, generally speaking, peaceful and prosperous, and people think we’re “nice”. The colonial era notwithstanding, ours is a culture low on aggression and high on geographic security, surrounded by three oceans and the longest undefended border in the world. These things all lend themselves to a sense of safety and security, which, according to Maslow, puts me a rung up the ladder on the way to defending abstract notions such as freedom and its associated ideals: to live authentically, to exercise individual agency, and be guided by moral responsibility. Jim valued these things as much as I did, as evidenced by the topics he chose for our conversations, but he was looking at the world through a very different lens.

Finding the Space for Plurality

When Jim slammed his fist on the table and rejected something that I was deeply passionate about, it awakened me to an unconscious assumption I’d carried most of my life. Until that moment, I had believed that the value of freedom was self-evident. Jim’s reaction shattered that assumption. He wasn’t rejecting it because he’d been denied it; he simply didn’t see it as necessary. I had always believed that freedom, as I understood it, was an inherent good, something universally desired. This encounter didn’t make me doubt my own belief in freedom—it was that, for the first time, I realized not everyone saw it as essential.

I could have responded in that moment in different ways. The first and perhaps most obvious, especially given the current state of political discourse, could have been to dismiss his opinion, to write him off as uninformed or misguided. I could have accused him of having his principles out of order and jumped onto perceived contradictions as evidence of weaknesses in his thinking. In these days of cancel culture, it seems a single misconstrued utterance can define one’s fate. But we have a choice. We can rush to judgment, assuming our own understanding to be complete and further cement ourselves in our own positions. Or we can prepare ourselves to transcend the comfort and predictability of our own inner world.

Hannah Arendt believes that sound judgment requires a form of representative thinking that allows the political actor to ‘go traveling’ and view the world from the perspective of others. The reality of living together in the public realm is one of plurality, of multiple stories, and requires the consideration of other points of view. As Arendt writes in The Human Condition, valid judgments are grounded in the ability to see things from another perspective, in “being and thinking in my own identity where actually I am not.” Approaching an issue with our minds already made up not only closes off any potential to know the world beyond the limits of our own experiences, for Arendt it also bears the seeds of disaster. 

When we remain frozen in our beliefs, anything that does not fit with our picture of the world must be discarded, and, increasingly, it is not just single ideas being discarded but everything a person is, everything they have ever said and will ever say, creating disturbing levels of discord and alienation. Everything has become reactionary, accusatory, and unforgiving, and we’re starting to fall down the rabbit hole of not even seeing one another as human.

Lacking the perspective and the confidence to push that conversation with Jim any further at the time, many years later, I felt I had no choice but to dive back into that moment. Jim’s outburst hit me in a way that I felt acutely, and it left me feeling deeply confused. But it did not erase the fact that Jim was still, for lack of a better term, “a good man.” He was kind and honest. He was a manager who showed great respect to his staff in a culture where that isn’t necessarily a thing. And he was a devoted husband and father. In the simple act of daily living, Jim added to the good in the world and made it a better place with his own small but significant gestures. 

I can’t ever know exactly what was behind Jim’s reaction. But I didn’t let his rejection of something I valued and identified with feel like a rejection of me. Sometimes we just don’t see things the same way. Sometimes we hold contradictory feelings and beliefs. This doesn’t mean we are insincere, it simply means we are human and I for one think it is time to start approaching one another with more grace. Instead of condemnation, choose curiosity. Accept the contradictions within yourself and others. Most importantly, don’t be afraid to leave the safety and predictability of your own thoughts and truly try to see things through the eyes of another.

When we have the courage to step beyond the limits of our own experiences, a world painted in black and white dissolves into colour. Doors appear where walls once stood. Words soften. Edges blur. But make no mistake, this is a most courageous act. Recognizing different lived realities and experiencing the shifts in awareness that accompany this act has the potential to throw one’s entire belief system into question. We may wonder, ‘If I was wrong about that, what else am I wrong about?’, making it difficult to trust ourselves. But it is not about right or wrong; it’s about so much more. It’s about our ability to be in the world together as we traverse the complex landscape of the human experience. In the words of Rumi, “beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.”

I have all the hope in the world.